


I will keep it

by ifllamascouldfly



Series: 21 wincest fics [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Deaf Character, Deaf Sam, Ghosts, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 19:25:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3662103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifllamascouldfly/pseuds/ifllamascouldfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is mostly gone, and Sam is a little bit broken. They both need to move on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I will keep it

**Author's Note:**

> From the 1st to the 21st of April, I will be writing a wincest oneshot every day.
> 
> Send me prompts! For details go to [this post](http://tangerinellama.tumblr.com/post/115212043162/the-april-thing).

In the two seconds that follow, there is only a scream. Then there is nothing.

 

The blood rushing in Sam’s ears gives way to the oppressive silence of space and deep seas. His throat is sore and his breathing is harsh and his bones creak with old injuries and a rough life and he can feel the scream caught in his mouth and he can hear nothing.

 

He has never been so scared. Or so alone.

 

Sam falls to his knees at some point, and he can see the gravel shift under him, can feel the sharp edges digging into his skin, but there is no crunch to accompany it. It throws him off balance, crawls down his skin like a thick fog of disorientation and fear and _what the fuck_ that sets him on edge.

 

There are hands on his shoulders. The same hands that slid behind his neck and pulled him close and twisted into his hair and pushed soft lips against his and fuck fuck fuck fuck _fuck_

 

Dean shouldn't be here.

 

"Cas brought you here." He knows he’s saying it, even if he can’t hear it, feels the words crawl out of his mouth like little insects. He can feel Dean’s hands tighten on him, imagines the sharp intake of his breath, the _shit, sammy_ he must have spat out.

 

“You’re not supposed to be here, Dean. It’s not a good idea. You should leave.” These words feel unsteady, paper boats in a stream, shaky and wet and sinking. He’s sinking.

 

Dean’s hands drop away from his shoulders, and, for a moment, Sam can believe that Dean listened, that he left.  He startles when a notebook is shoved in front of his face, one of the little tiny ones he used to keep in the Impala’s glove compartment when he still wore suits and pretended to be things he wasn’t. It looks strange in Dean’s hands, scrubbed clean, without even a little layer of grease under the nails. Cas knows how to bring things back perfect. He hasn’t learned to keep the imperfections in yet. He probably never will.

 

_I’m not leaving_ the notebook says, Dean’s words written in hurriedly enough for them to be barely legible. He watches and Dean underlines them over and over, and he shakes his head.

 

“You can’t- I need you to leave, Dean. You can’t stay here for this.” Maybe it’s easier to speak in pencil, because Dean barely pauses before he pulls the notebook away and writes something in it. _NO._ it says in all caps, already underlined three times, _I AM NOT LEAVING._

 

“I can’t do this if you stay here.”

 

_I know_ Dean writes, and his eyes are red and wet and an angry kind of sad, _I don’t want you to do this._

 

“I _have to_ , Dean, you don’t understand, this can fix _everything_.”

 

_I DON’T CARE._

 

“I need to fix this.”

 

_IT’S NOT BROKEN._ He doesn’t have to hear Dean to know that there’s a hitch in his breath, can almost feel the heat of Dean’s glare.

 

“Yes it _is_!”

 

_sammy_ Dean writes. One word. Too many lifetimes.

 

“You’re _gone_ , Dean. I can’t keep doing this. I need to end it. You need to go.”

 

_I don’t want to._

 

“I don’t want it either. But we need it.”

 

_Okay._  

 

“Yeah?”

 

_yeah. I just want one last thing_.

 

Dean moves whisper soft these days, and Sam knows Dean’s not making the gravel crunch under his boots while he walks forward, but he likes to imagine that he does.  Dean’s hands are gentle on his face, barely there pressure on his ears, a quiet apology for something that wasn’t his fault.

 

Dean’s lips are cold and soft on his, and the kiss is slow and sweet, and he can pretend they just got back from a hunt, from an early morning run, from a snowball fight they had because the snow was just _there_.

 

Dean pulls away, with a smile, and Sam pretends he can’t see right through it.

 

_Okay. We can do this now_.

 

He drops his lighter.

 

He can taste salt under his tongue. Smoke curls into his nose and settles there, bitter and sour. His hands are curled into fists, knuckles white and scabbed over, blood drying into little itchy patches of red and black that pull at his skin when he moves.

 

“Bye, Dean.”


End file.
